Where She Cannot Follow
by BleedtoLoveHer
Summary: A story in which Peeta suffers from episodes of an entirely different nature. A Hunger Games/Time Traveler's Wife AU.


Author's Note: This was written for the Hunger Games Spring Fling exchange over on archiveofourown for the lovely Salanderjade.

For those of you that have not read The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, this might be a bit hard to follow, and I apologize for that. (Also, I highly recommend the book. It's truly fantastic.) When I first saw Salanderjade's prompt for a THG/TTW AU, I couldn't help but want to play around with the idea of the Capitol's plans to hijack Peeta leaving him with this predicament instead.

I hope that anyone unfamiliar with the book still enjoys this story, but more importantly, I hope that Salanderjade enjoys it most of all.

* * *

The first time that Katniss Everdeen ever speaks to me, I am 32 years old. She is only twelve, but absolutely pissed. And I can't say that I blame her, really. I know for a fact that this is the first time that she's ever run across anyone here in her little cabin in the woods. Much less a grown man that she's never seen before, sopping wet and hurriedly dressing in her father's clothes. It was only the edge of the lake this time, thank goodness. I really should take her up on that offer for those swimming lessons one of these days...

For such a tiny thing, her tongue is already sharp as she berates the stranger in front of her. Despite her yelling and the stomping of her foot, I can't help but marvel at the sight in front of me. At how tiny she is; much smaller than she ever seemed to a twelve year old me. At how her grey eyes dart from my face to the worn and patched red sweater pulled taut across my shoulders, the space between her brows knitting into a scowl. At how that scowl is the exact same back in the place where she's 32 as well, and waiting on me.

I joke that it's payback for the eleven year wait that I endured before even speaking to her, but I know that this is different. Nowadays, Katniss is always waiting on me.

The one in front of me though is still irate, and fussing with the sleeves of that old, brown leather hunting jacket. It's so big on her frame and makes something inside of my chest ache.

Until she throws at rock at me, catching me on the mouth. My lip starts to bleed, and even though I know it would hardly show up against the deep red of the sweater that I wear, I don't dare try to use it to staunch the bleeding. I press my hand to my lip and hope that it helps.

She turns on the heel of her boot toward the wall, still giving me an earful, but refusing to face in my direction. I'm still naked from the waist down, and years from this time and place, she'll tell me that this moment was instrumental in the aversion to nudity that she had for so long. From a dying, sixteen year old version of me on a riverbank, to the boisterous, Quarter Quell version of Johanna Mason in an elevator car.

"It's okay. I'm a friend of your father's."

The words are not a lie, but they are still tinged with guilt that I hope goes unnoticed.

She turns slowly, her chin tilted down as she gives me the quickest side-eye that she can manage. Satisfied that I'm now fully clothed, she looks up. Her gaze rests on the window behind me regardless.

"My father's dead."

I had surmised as much from the gaunt look of her cheeks, and how the skin on her hands seems to be stretched impossibly thin over the bones in her tiny fingers. She's out here hunting, though. This means that I've already thrown her the bread. I send a silent 'thank you' to the small, bruised version of myself that exists back, past the fence, in District 12's town square.

"Does that mean that I can't be a friend of his?"

She takes a moment to think the question over.

Katniss is smart, always has been, and while she might not have paid attention to me growing up, I know she always paid close attention to her father. And I do not look like any of her father's friends. From the blond curls on top of my head and the pallor of my skin, to the lack of coal dust underneath my fingernails. I've got to think fast.

"He told me that you had excellent aim, but I guess I never thought that I'd find out this way," I say, pulling the hand from my mouth. Still bleeding, damn.

Her eyes pull up to my face, and I can see that I've got her now. I remember, vaguely, a time when she told me that was what had helped soften her to my presence. Well, maybe not soften, but it's what left her curious about what else her father had told his friends about her. Curious about the man that her father had been outside of their home at all, really.

"Fine," she says, reaching down to pick up the still slight game bag from its spot on the floor. She wipes her sunburned nose with the back of her hand and starts for the door. "You can stay... but you can't just hang around naked even when I'm not here. It's too cold for that. And it's rude."

I watch her through the window as she walks back into the woods. Her braid comes untucked from the collar of her shirt as she turns to face the cabin once more. My hand lifts before I even think of it, and I offer her a small wave. She sees me and takes almost a full thirty seconds before returning the gesture. The scowl is gone, but there's still no trace of a smile on her face.

Stepping back from the window, I feel myself start to fade.

I barely have the time to catch myself, the sturdy, polished banister that lines the stairs to the second story of our home slamming hard into my armpits. I come close to biting through my damn tongue as my chin hits the wood, but it's certainly not the first time. Looking around as I move to sit, it's all too simple to see how easy of a tumble it would have been to the bottom of the steps.

Katniss is pretty sure that she's seen me older than I am now, though. Hell, I'm pretty sure that _I've_ seen myself older. But while that means that the fall wouldn't have killed me, I think that I still have the right to be thankful for an unbroken neck. At least, I'm thankful until the light in the hall upstairs clicks on and I realize that a tired, worried, and very newly pregnant wife might break it anyway.

I wasn't gone long this time. A few hours, maybe? But before this - less than a week before this - it'd been closer to a month. I know that the time away is hard on her - that she needs me more than she'd ever let on. Especially now. (Even if, in so many ways, she's still the same, independent, hard headed girl that needs absolutely no one in order to survive.)

I look up just in time to see her come into view, and give her the smile that I know she'll only roll her eyes at. It's hard to stop myself, though. I'm happy to see her; from the weary, pinched look of her face, to the still flat plane of her belly underneath the thin, cotton nightgown she wears. I'm always happy to see her.

Her eyes, rimmed in red from where I can tell she's been crying, but know better than to comment on, skim the length of my body quickly. I might not have been gone long, but we both know that it doesn't take a lot of time for things to go wrong. I never know where I might end up during one of my episodes, or what I might have to do in order to get by while I'm out there. More often than not, I'm far from safe.

"You're bleeding," she announces, sounding as tired as she looks.

My chin still hurts like a son of a bitch from its collision with the banister, so I'm not surprised. I raise my hand to my chin and attempt to wipe away any blood. She's already turning toward the bathroom, no doubt to grab a towel or some bandages, but the puzzled look on my face when my hand comes away clean must stop her.

"Not there." She takes a step forward, and soon my eyes close at the feel of her fingertips brushing gently over my lower lip. For someone with a nickname like hers, her skin is consistently cool to the touch, and always feels good when pressed against my own. "Here."

A corner of my mouth twitches up, and I can tell that she's getting ready to roll her eyes at me again, or tell me that there's nothing funny about the situation. I take my hand and smooth out the skin between her eyebrows, speaking before she has a chance to.

"Yes. Well, you threw a rock at me."

Her eyes soften, and she covers my hand with her own. There's even the slightest hint of a smile on her mouth.

"You were naked," she deadpans before letting out a soft laugh as she lowers herself onto the step next to me. She rests of her head on my chest, her ear pressed just over my heart. "It was traumatizing."

"I don't hear you complaining now, Mrs. Mellark."

* * *

The first time that it happened, I was back -hitting the cold, linoleum floor of the room they kept me in with a thud- before I'd even finished throwing up.

I don't remember much. Other than the splitting headache and two significantly painful landings (once on a rocky gravel path that lead to a place I'm not sure that I'd ever been, and the second on the aforementioned floor), the shock of it all was the only thing that really registered.

That shock was hardly exclusive. That much was obvious by the confused exclamations, orders being barked, and the crashing of medical and torture devices alike being sent to the floor by an errant limb. I was unclear on whether or not said limb belonged to me, seeing as how everything already hurt. My ears were ringing and it made everything sound muffled, and like I was underwater, but it was apparent that whatever happened was far from what they had expected.

For a brief moment, I'd thought that it had finally happened… that I was dead and that they wouldn't be able to hurt me anymore. That they wouldn't be able to use me to hurt _her _anymore.

I had no idea at the time of what they had taken from me. That they had destroyed a promise made back in a snowy, cold District 12, in a darkened bedroom as Katniss had been slipping into a slumber so deep that she might not have even heard it come from my mouth.

She'd asked me to stay. I'd told her always.

But that's a hard promise to keep when you're constantly going where she cannot follow.

* * *

I can't tell what time I'm in, or whether Katniss or her father was the one to build the fire that I'm currently very grateful for. My back hurts from scraping large chunks of skin off on the tree that I came to against, and I've opted to forego the sweater that's tucked away for me. I must have been out for a while because my toes are still far beyond just being blue; the feeling in them is only coming back now.

There's not a single thing about traveling through time that isn't odd, but sometimes the simplest things, like changes in the seasons, or overall climate, are the hardest to adapt to. Just this morning, Katniss and I walked the dry, dusty road into town for her doctor's appointment. She complained about her hair sticking to the back of her neck the entire time.

"So you _are_ still alive," a rich, deep voice sounds from behind me. A voice that my wife would give just about anything to hear again. Stepping inside and lifting the strap of his quiver from his shoulder, he looks me over. I wince as I turn to face him more fully, and his eyebrows lift. "Real big mess in here last time I stopped by. Awful lot of blood."

This is where things tend to get tricky. I meet people and do things out of order a lot, so something that's already happened for Jesse Everdeen (_Mr._ Everdeen in my head, always) might still be yet to come for me. Like whatever he's talking about now. I'd ask questions, but ultimately they'd get me nowhere. Asking when the last time he stopped by actually was? Pointless when it could be years from now on my end of things.

Thankfully, there are a few things about the man in front of me that his daughter did not inherit. Namely, his ability to read people. It comes in handy in moments like this when he can read my hesitance to speak.

Over time, I've gotten good at flying by the seat of my pants and not spending too much time focusing on the possibility of what's to come. I've more or less had to. It's hard to maintain that mindset now, though. Since we found out about the baby, it's damned near impossible. So, as Mr. Everdeen goes on to say that I'm still looking kind of rough, although not dead like he'd originally feared, I try not to wonder what will happen to me in this place at some point in my future.

"Well, you're not looking too good yourself," I say with a scoff, maybe a second or two too late.

The truth is that he's really not looking all that bad. Younger than I'm used to seeing him, actually. The lack of greying hair at his temples is evident, and the beard that I've gotten so used to seeing on him is absent. There is more than a few days' worth of stubble covering his face, though, and the dark circles underneath his eyes could almost pass for bruises.

He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair, pushing it back behind an ear before he speaks. The gesture is so like Katniss when she's tired or agitated that it's almost uncanny.

"Lily's had a rough couple of nights… Weeks, really." He pauses to rub the heel of his hand into his eyes as he lowers himself to sit a few feet away from me in front of the fire. "Ever since she's gotten too big to sleep on her stomach, she tosses and turns."

I nod my head and face forward, watching the flames flicker and pop in front of me as I search for something to say. Katniss doesn't usually sleep on her stomach, but I know for a fact that having the option taken away from her will be just as bad.

"How much longer now?" I ask, hoping to gauge which Everdeen girl is getting ready to make her entrance into the world. Primrose was a late summer baby so the due date would be farther away.

"Just a few months now," he answers. "In fact, I should be getting back soon. I don't like to leave her alone for too long."

My stomach starts to hurt at how badly I can relate to those words.

I'd say that I know what he means, but to him, I'm definitely not the man who will go on to one day marry the baby girl that his wife is carrying. As far as he's concerned, I'm just some hermit, living alone in the woods and disappearing from time to time. And sporadically gaining or losing years…

I rub my palm over my eyes. I've been trying to fight off this damned headache that's been building all day. There's another twinge (maybe stabbing pain would be more accurate) directly behind my eye as the ache worsens, and I wince involuntarily. Mr. Everdeen raises a brow as if to ask if I'm alright, but I just hold up a hand to say I'm fine.

"Getting nervous?"

He laughs, and it sounds almost like music. She has his laugh.

"Terrified is more like it."

Taking away all of the things that I've been told or witnessed when I was younger, I can say with certainty that he's going to make an excellent father. Trying to separate the things that Katniss has told me from my personal opinion of the man beside me is not always easy, but this instance is almost elementary. From the first time that he met me, after tracking what he thought had been a wounded animal all the way that the lake, his undeniably good nature and compassion have never been in question.

If a man like this can be terrified by the thought of fatherhood, then any qualms that I might have can certainly be validated.

The image from earlier this afternoon, albeit over three decades into the future, of Katniss' teary eyes and shaking hands as we heard the gentle _swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_ of a heartbeat sounding over the room fills my mind. Gratitude toward the man she called father and I call a friend for the determination and passion that he instilled in her fills my heart.

"You'll be a great father," I say, not taking my eyes off the fire.

He snorts and, just like his laughter, the action causes me to pause. They're harder to get out of her, but the same nonetheless.

"As long as it's a boy and I can bring him out here," he says, tilting his chin toward the window. "I wouldn't know the first thing about dealing with a little girl."

"You'll be fine. Trust me. I can already see you, showing her everything you know." I smile over at him, and he seems a little more relaxed at my words. "Maybe you could even bring her to the lake and teach her how to swim."

Later, when I am back in my own bed, Katniss' back tucked firmly against my chest, I can't help but wonder if my words have been protecting her all along. Not only my confession to Caesar Flickerman that seems to have been a lifetime ago during our first Games, or my announcement of a fake pregnancy before the Quell… But a simple suggestion made to her father before she was even born.

The possibility makes my head start to hurt all over again. I lay my hands flat over the swell her stomach, thinking of the heartbeat underneath them instead.

* * *

I can still remember the day that the alarms went off while we were at school. I turned so quickly in my seat that I came close to toppling over just trying to check on her. To make sure that she was okay, even though I knew there wasn't a single thing that I could do to help matters if she wasn't.

At the time, I had no idea that there was a one-legged, twenty-seven year old version of myself that would be trying his best to comfort her later that night. She wouldn't remember much about the encounter. She had much larger things on her mind than the oddly dressed man who wrapped a stolen blanket around her little sister's shoulders. Nor would she take into account the way that he'd blocked their small bodies from the stampede of others that blindly made their way to check on their own husbands and fathers.

I remember it all. From the ash that landed in a fine coat over her hair, to the despondent, lost look in her eyes when the elevator brought up the last of the survivors. And even though I knew that one day, far into the future, she would smile again, watching her heart break in front of me… Well, knowing that didn't make it any easier.

Knowing what's to come never makes the pain of the past easier to bear.

As for the pain of the present… Well, that's even harder.

I hadn't wanted Katniss to come to my appointment with me today. Hell, if it had been possible to hide it from her, I'm ashamed to say that I probably would have.

You don't have to be a medical professional, or even a professional patient like me, in order to grasp the severity of what I'm being told. Medical jargon aside, as soon as the term '_but we're hopeful that_' comes into play, that should be enough.

Every word from the doctor's mouth is like a punch to the gut, and I can see her hands shaking from the corner of my eye. I clasp my fingers tightly over hers, but can't bring myself to look at her face.

I've known. I've known for a while now, really. The headaches have gotten worse, and the old, familiar symptoms that I used to have a hold on (the nausea, vomiting, and general lack of equilibrium) have reemerged with a sense of vengeance.

There are new side effects as well that I'm sure have to do mostly with age, and will slowly worsen the older that I get. However old that may be. Wounds don't heal the way that they used to – like the one that's brought me here today.

It still hurts to turn my head, so I'm forced to move my entire body to catch another look at the scans mounted on the wall beside us. I don't pretend to fully understand what I see there, and I'm not looking for answers, really. I just stare at the light that illuminates the image from behind, fixated on the points that it shines through where I've been told it shouldn't.

It's an odd feeling, knowing that, over time, I'm coming back with less and less of myself.

* * *

When I woke this morning, there wasn't a single doubt in my mind that there was nothing I could do to stop myself from disappearing. Katniss knows, and after years of seeing me vanish before her eyes, simply sat with me on the couch for hours. She pulled her knees over my own, and laid the memory book across her lap, letting me trace the lines of the faces I had drawn over a decade ago until I finally faded from the spot beside her.

It starts the same way each time. And I've relived it enough (more times than I'd like) to recite the sequence of events from memory.

I come to somewhere in the woods near the edge of the tree line. It's hot. The kind of heat that leaves the ground hard and makes the grass crunch beneath your feet when you walk. The kind of heat that leaves everything cracked and dry and makes it easier for fire to spread. After heaving the contents of my stomach onto the dirt beside me, I push myself up and slip (hopefully undetected) underneath the fence and toward the Victors' Village. There's no one home at any of the houses, but they are not empty. I turn the knob on the backdoor of my house and dress in clothes that were made for a 17 year old version of myself. And then I wait, rooting around in the kitchen until I hear the bombs start to drop.

Only this time, they don't.

I watch the sun as it starts to slip farther and farther beneath the horizon with only the noise of the crickets in the background.

It's almost completely dark by the time that I reach the square in town. Even with the sun no longer beating down from overhead, and the shadows that I stick to in the alleyways, the heat is still stifling. I'm clinging to the outside wall of the florist's shop, desperate to remain hidden, when I ground to a halt.

"Katniss, it's no use pretending we don't know what the other one is trying to do."

My voice.

These words… they don't belong in District 12. They belong on a beach, in an arena that neither of us could see a way out of, an indeterminate amount of miles from here.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I had almost forgotten about the viewings in the town's center. I suppose that once it's you in the arena, it feels as if that's where you've always been. The days and nights that I stood in a crowd like the one before me now was a different lifetime entirely. Once the fight began, I barely thought about the people that watched me like this back home. Never considered the reactions they would give, or whether there would be a reaction at all.

I see myself on the screen now, and remember… the boy on that beach, so intent on saving the girl, wanting to forget the cameras for at least as long as this moment played out.

I'm moving to the edge of the alley to get a better look when I see him. Twenty, maybe twenty-five feet away, flour still dusting his clothes and a deep crease in his forehead. My father is standing alone, to the side of the crowd, holding his breath.

The longer that the conversation on the large screen goes on, the more people there are turning to watch his reaction.

I've watched from afar as he held my hand on that first day of school. I've overheard the sound of pride in his voice when he told customers that, yes; his youngest did do a wonderful job on the window display. I've even seen, over and over, the bombs that fell from the sky and took him away – knowing the entire time that he was out there in the middle of all the destruction, and there was nothing that I could do about it.

I know what's coming now, though. I meant every word, but again… I never gave a second thought to a single reaction other than the one that belonged to the girl in front of me.

"No one really needs me."

The look on my father's face as he hears these words, a resigned, painful sort of shame… It guts me. I wonder for the first time, seeing him stand alone with hands trembling and clenching at his sides, if maybe I'd been wrong.

And then, when Katniss replies (_I do. I need you)_ there's a faint smile that crosses his lips.

He stays rooted to his spot until the screen fades to black, the Capitol seal signifying the end of tonight's broadcast. Even as the square empties out, he hangs back, face still tilted upward for just a moment longer. There's a pull from somewhere in the pit of my stomach, and I can't tell whether it's because I'll be going soon, or from the almost overwhelming want I have to go to him – just to be that close to him one more time.

I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I don't even notice when he turns his head. Suddenly, he's just looking at me. Staring, really. His shoulders go slack, and the line between his brows disappears. He takes one step forward, and I can see his lips start to form my name.

But I'm gone before I get to hear his voice.

* * *

It's late, and I'm finally settling down for the night. I've actually felt pretty good today. The headache is down to a dull roar, and I feel better than I have lately. More _present._ I'm not foolish enough to think it will last, but it's been months since I had an episode. Of course, the closer that it gets to her due date, the more anxious this seems to make Katniss. She's worried that I'll miss it, and I know the thought of going through this alone frightens her.

"What do you think that they were really trying to do to you?"

Her words are barely a whisper, but they're more than enough to get my attention. I turn to face her side of the bed, taking in the line of her body as she lies on her side, one hand tucked underneath her cheek with the other splayed over her belly. I'm not surprised when I come to her eyes to find that she's not looking at me. She's worrying at the corner of her bottom lip, and I reach over to tug it from her teeth with my thumb as I slip farther beneath the blankets. When we're face to face, I inhale deeply; the scent of her filling my nostrils and calming the tug at my insides that's been persistent lately.

"I'm not sure," I say. It's a conversation that's drifted listlessly between us throughout the years. One that usually upsets one, or the both of us, to the point that we're normally apt to avoid it. "Definitely not what they got, though."

She's been quieter than usual lately. Since she felt our daughter stirring inside of her for the first time. I know there's something on the edge of her tongue that she wants to get out; she just needs some help.

"Why?"

She looks over at me through her lashes, and the hesitance is clear on her face.

"It's just…," she starts, needlessly adjusting the nightgown over her stomach. I link my fingers through hers and hope that it helps. "I've been thinking about it a lot lately. About how sure I am that they wanted to hurt you… to take you from me. And how there was nothing that I could have done to help you. To keep you safe."

This is a side of her that I'm not entirely used to seeing, and it's anything but easy for me when her voice cracks and shakes like it does now. She mumbles something about stupid hormones under her breath, and wipes at her eyes with the corner of the pillowcase.

"Hey, hey…" I pull her in, as close as the bump between us will allow. "It's alright. I'm here, aren't I? They didn't take me away from you, and I'm here."

She pulls back, her face flushed and expression indignant.

"That's not the point." She pushes the heel of her hand against her brow and struggles to pull herself into a seated position before giving up a second later and flopping back down to the pillow. "And it's not true. You're here _now_, but… They might not have done it then, but they're still taking you away from me now. And there's nothing that I can do about it. And it's stupid, and I don't know how to say it, but I couldn't protect you then, and I couldn't protect Prim, and I can't protect you now. How the hell am I supposed to protect her?"

She takes a deep breath after the rush of words, and looks at me briefly before staring up at the ceiling.

I want to tell her that she's not to blame for anything that's happened to me, or what happened to her sister. But she's heard it all before, and I know that a repeat performance of the tried and true speech is not what's she's looking for right now. So instead, I lean my chin on her shoulder and move close enough that my lips brush over her collarbone as I speak.

"It's okay to be scared, Katniss. I'm terrified. Of so many things, and I've wanted this for almost as long as I can remember. But if there's one thing that I'm not afraid of… It's whether or not you're going to be an amazing mother."

She lets out a scoff.

"Peeta."

"No. You can't change my mind on this." I press a kiss to the crook of her neck. The tension in her shoulders loosens a little, and I'm relieved as I drag my lips over her neck to the spot behind her ear that never fails to make her breath catch in her chest. "Our daughter is going to have a mother who knows better than most exactly how valuable and how precious life really is. She's going to have a mother who will love her with all that she is, and I can't think of anything better than that."

There's a tear escaping her eye, settling into the crease at the corner and trailing over the cluster of freckles there that I love. I wipe the moisture away and move to cover her mouth with mine. It takes a moment, but I refuse to pull away until I can feel her lips turn up into a smile. She sighs as I lean back to look at her, and when she speaks, her breath fans over my face.

"You're going to be the perfect father."

* * *

It's not often that I'm awarded the opportunity to travel forward, but it is obvious by the look of (shocked) recognition on Delly's face that it's exactly what I've done now. As I peer into the open doorway of one of the classrooms of District 12 Primary School, dressed in a variety of ill-fitting garments from the lost and found, she stops mid-lecture and just stares.

An entire room full of children turn their heads, and there is no question in my mind when a small, dark-haired girl in the second row jumps from her seat that I'm looking at my daughter. I watch as she nearly knocks over her chair to get to me, in awe of how seamlessly she navigates and jumps over the discarded backpacks littering the floor between us. In awe of what a beautiful, perfect child Katniss and I have created. Almost before I have time to brace myself for impact, her little arms are tightly wound around my waist, and just hearing her say 'Daddy,' over and over again is enough to bring me close to tears.

A little boy in the front row asks Delly who I am, eyeing me warily as he speaks.

"That's Olivia's father." Her voice is quiet, and I don't know why it unsettles me so. I focus on the name instead, seeing as how Katniss and I haven't decided on one yet. Olivia is a good name.

"But her dad's dead."

I swallow hard and can almost swear that I feel my heart as it hits the bottom of my stomach. Olivia's arms just tighten around me even more, and I kneel down the best I can so that her face buries itself into the crook of my neck. She smells like her mother, like the woods and the wind, and I want to laugh at how much she also sounds like her when she opens her mouth to speak.

"He's dead, but not _always_ dead."

I can practically hear her eyes roll.

Delly, thank goodness, has a sympathetic look on her face as she nods her head the slightest bit. I smile at her as I take Olivia out into the hallway, but my nerves are too shot to know whether or not it actually shows up on my face. We move a little ways down the corridor. Olivia's hand is wrapped firmly around my fingers as I try to keep the limp out of my walk from where the prosthesis melded with my actual flesh is fairly insistent about acting up these days. She stops me, holding up a hand without any words, and rolls up the legs of the baggy sweatpants I'm wearing.

She grins up at me, and her bright blue eyes shine in a way that reminds me so much of my father.

"Still have one of them," she announces brightly.

I don't know what to say, so I just lower myself to sit on the floor, inching backward to lean against the lockers that line the walls. She sits in front of me, her short, skinny legs that peak out from her skirt pulled to one side. There's a scab on one of her knees and grass stains on the other, and aside from her eyes, all I can see in her is Katniss. I'm having a hard time with all of this. She looks exactly like I've always pictured.

"You've never met me before, have you?" Her face is so open, and her words so gentle that it's now that I can see where I am in the little girl in front of me. My daughter. I have a daughter.

I shake my head and chuckle just a bit.

"I can't say that I have."

She takes a moment to think this over before grabbing the hand in my lap and shaking it.

"Well, it's nice to meet you. I'm Olivia Mellark." She grins wider as she says it, and my heart is so full of love and wonder for the child in front of me that I can't help but mirror the expression.

"Nice to meet you, Olivia."

All of the sudden she jumps up from her spot on the floor. I'm surprised, but can do nothing but watch her as she darts back into the classroom we just came from. She's not gone long at all though, and rushes back out into the hallway barely thirty seconds later. There's a bag in her hands, white paper, with the top folded over; it's the same kind of bags that I use at the bakery. She pulls a cookie, peanut butter with chocolate chips, out and offers it to me as she climbs into my lap.

"You were really hungry the last time. I thought you might want this."

I don't want to take her food, and tell her so. She pushes it into my hand anyway, insisting that I should have it.

"I always bring extra," she says, looking down at her little hands folded in her lap. "Just in case."

Shit. I don't know if I can handle this.

"Do we get to see each other a lot?"

"No, not really," she answers, and I can practically see her counting in her head before she continues. "I'm ten now. The last time was when I was eight."

I hesitate, but not long enough to stop myself from asking the next question.

"How old were you when I died?"

"Five."

_Shit._

Immediately her face falls, and she looks so worried that I think she might cry.

"No, no, no. It's fine, sweetie. Don't be upset." I pull her closer to my chest and let out a shaky exhale. "I asked."

I break the cookie in half and offer her the larger portion. I want to ask her about Katniss, but don't think that I could handle hearing what she might have to tell me. My head is already starting to pound, and I find myself torn. I want to get back home, back to where Katniss is due any day now, and I would hate myself if I missed it, but at the same time, having our daughter right in front of me is more than I could ever imagine. Thirsty for information, I continue on.

"Tell me about yourself, Olivia Mellark. What do you like to do?"

"Well, Mama's been teaching me how to shoot. She says that I'm getting pretty good. I spend time with Uncle Haymitch on the weekends and help him with his geese because he pretends that he hates them, and they're some big hassle." She cuts her eyes to the side and gives me the same look that Katniss did the first time that our mentor made a big production about how in the way the birds were, and how they were lucky that he didn't like the taste of goose. The idea that the old man's outlived me is surprising, but I'm glad that Katniss has someone with her who understands, still. "I like to paint, too. Mama still won't let me use anything in your studio, but I don't think it's because she doesn't trust me, or anything. I think it just makes her sad."

_Sad_. The word echoes in my head, and is exactly why I didn't want to ask about her in the first place.

"Marcus got in there a couple of years ago, and she's had a lock on the door ever since."

"Marcus?"

Her little cheeks start to turn pink, and I find myself trying to memorize the placement of each freckle that covers them.

"Oh, yeah. I guess if you hadn't met me, you haven't met him, either." She turns to face away from me as she settles against me with her head tucked underneath my chin. "He's my little brother – your son. He's eight."

Eight. He'll be three when I die… He probably won't even remember me.

Damn it.

My stomach starts to churn, and there's a high-pitched whining noise that's starting to ring in my ears, and I know that I don't have much longer here. I want to hold on, though. I want to hold on so badly that, for a second, I think that I might actually be able to. Olivia turns to face me though, and I can tell that she knows what's about to happen. She climbs off my lap and sits on her knees beside me, pressing her soft cheek to mine and running her tiny fingers through my hair.

"It's okay, Daddy," she whispers. At least, I think she's whispering. Everything is starting to fade, and the noise in my ears is getting louder. "I understand if you have to go. I love you."

"I love you, too, baby." I say as clearly as I can. "Tell your mother, and tell Marcus, that I love them, too."

I feel the wetness of the tears on her cheek against my own for a split second, and then I'm gone.

I know there is no such thing as an omission of the truth. A lie is a lie, so that is exactly what it feels like when I choose to try to soothe Katniss' fears with the affirmation that our little girl is perfect, and that everything is going to be just fine. That we're all going to be just fine.

* * *

I'm lying next to Katniss, exactly one week after my first meeting with our daughter, one hand wrapped around her shoulders and the other gently covering the back of Olivia's head. There's a thick, soft layer of dark hair on her head, and I can't seem to stop running the tips of my fingers through it as she sleeps. She's pink, and wrinkled, and her face is all pinched up in a sweet, sleepy kind of concentration as she nuzzled closer against her mother's breast.

"You were right. She's perfect," Katniss whispers, her eyes never leaving the bundle in her arms.

I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, tasting the sweat that's dried on her skin. She takes me by surprise as she tilts her head and lets her lips fall flush against mine. It's one of my favorite feelings, one that I'll never tire of even if her skin is dry and chapped. It anchors me to the spot beside her, along with the two invisible cords that stretch between my heart and the others in the room.

When she pulls away, there's a smile on her face, and I'm not sure that she's ever looked more beautiful. I smile back as her eyes slip closed for half a second, and she tries in vain to stay awake and alert. I inhale deeply as I look down at our little family and, for the first time in years, the tightness in my chest feels like a good thing. Possibly the best thing, I think.

Katniss wakes some time later as I'm contemplating moving to close the still open window. The bedroom is dark, and there is snow on the ground outside, and she is so tired that she'll surely slip back underneath the blanket of sleep soon. Her eyes are cloudy, and the word is more mouthed than spoken, but I find myself transported back in time without actually leaving for once.

This time, when she asks me to stay, I choke a little on my reply. _Always_. The word is stuck, clinging to the back of my throat along with a sob that's almost burning to be let out. I know the timeline that I'm left with now. I try to focus on the scene in front of me, and the joy that knowing there's another moment, just as beautiful as this, yet to come. And that I'll be here for it.

So I wait until the pull of exhaustion is too strong, her eyelashes resting on her cheeks, and allow the word to slip from my lips. I follow her slowly into sleep, and wish with everything I am that it could be true.


End file.
